A String of Glass Beads
by badwolfmonica
Summary: Life would be boring if it were predictable. Eventually a series of short stories and one-shots.
1. Prayers

**Cullen deals with lyrium withdrawal. **  
_Pairing: Hints of Cullen/Trevelyan_

_Inspired by the Chant of Light and angsty Cullen posts on Tumblr._

* * *

As the rest of Skyhold slumbers, Cullen remains awake.

He does what he can to keep himself busy—pacing the length of his room, skimming a few pages of his favorite novel, polishing his armor—but this only works for a couple of hours. His body aches from morning training and his eyes are heavy with exhaustion but there is crawling and itching beneath his skin and he just needs to _move_.

Cullen sweeps a shaky hand across his sweaty brow as he drags his tongue over his cracked lips and swallows, wincing at how badly it stings to do so. Thirst overcomes him like a ship being swallowed by the sea and he nearly dives for the basin as he drowns himself in the thought of water, water, water—where is the _water_? The basin is bone dry, but he remembers just filling it before he retired to his quarters and _Maker when will the itching stop_?

The kitchens! The kitchens will have water! Then his thirst will be quenched and he will _finally_ be able to go to sleep.

The walk is quiet and Cullen is accompanied by no more than the sound of soft summer breezes and his own footsteps. He brings his shirt to his face, once again wiping the sweat from his brow. The heat of Bloomingtide is unrelenting, even in the evenings. Another gust of wind dances by with a trail of whispers behind it that stop Cullen in mid-stride. His forehead creases in annoyance. It is the third time this week he's caught mages meandering the halls past curfew but they never listen, even after he's given them more warnings than they deserve. His head swivels from side to side and behind him, but there is no one there and it has fallen silent again.

"Who goes there?" He calls, his eyes searching. "I demand you show yourself!"

Silence.

A sharp pain spears through his head, but he has a duty to fulfill and Cullen puts one foot in front of the other, continuing on… on to… where is he going again? Judging by the position of the moon it is very late and Cullen groans inwardly because he has to get up early for morning prayers and help Greagoir with the new recruits and what in Andraste's name is he _thinking _being up so late—

"Cullen?" A voice floats from behind him and he spins around in surprise, almost losing balance. His vision goes blurry, but he can still make out familiar long brown hair and deep blue robes. "Maker, aren't you freezing?"

"Freezing?" Cullen presses the heels of his palms to his eyes in a desperate attempt to regain proper vision. He should not be having casual conversation with a mage—especially with _her_. He has already been lectured on controlling his affections by Greagoir and he was _not_ ready to have that conversation again.

"It's the middle of Wintermarch and you're in nothing but a tunic and simple trousers." Her voice is low and worried, and she shifts her weight uneasily. "Cullen, are you alright?"

"Enough!" he snaps, a bead of sweat dripping down the bridge of his nose. His vision has not yet cleared, his skin is burning, and when he swallows it as if his sin is clawing its way out but his training dictates that he cannot lose face. "I am a knight of the Order and you will address me as such, apprentice. It is past curfew and…" He must report it to both the Knight-Commander and Senior Enchanter but the words never find their way to his mouth. "And I must escort you back to your quarters immediately."

"Cul—_Ser_ Cullen," she begins, voice gentle but halting, "Do you know who I am?"

"Of course," he replies. She's as familiar to him as the feel of a blade in his hand. The mage who enjoys keeping to herself and reading the thickest volumes in the library. The apprentice he sneaks short conversations with when no one is watching and who greets him every time she passes, although she knows he must remain silent when on duty. The girl with the kind smile and brilliant grey eyes and curves that make him pray for forgiveness each night.

But something snaps within him and soon the winter air bites at his skin, and his vision and mind are clear as the question is repeated, "Do you know who I am?"

"Not her…" he whimpers so softly that she must gingerly lean closer to him.

"I'm sorry, I can't understand you."

"Evelyn," he manages to rasp out, frowning. "Your name is Evelyn Trevelyan."

"Where are we?" she asks, taking a step closer. Her expression is of concern mixed with doubt.

"We are at Skyhold. It is the fifth evening of Wintermarch and I was…" He stops to think for a moment and notices how rough his tongue is on the roof of his mouth. "Water. I was going to get water."

The words roll from Cullen's tongue, long and familiar, as if he has said them many times before.

Evelyn unties the waterskin at her waist and hands it to him. "Here, take mine. I have more in my quarters."

He takes it from her hands, restraining himself from snatching it because his thirst was becoming unbearable, and drinks greedily from it. The water soothes his aching throat all the way down to his knotting stomach. "Thank you," he sighs, wiping the few drops that dribble down his chin.

"You're welcome," she smiles, although it never reaches her eyes. She walks up to him and rests a hand on his shoulder, her fingertips trailing pinpricks down his arm. "Goodnight, Cullen."

"Inquisitor," he replies with a slight bow, eyes never leaving the floor as he begins the walk back to his room.

Exhaustion finally takes Cullen when he catches sight of his neatly-made bed, but he knows he will not sleep tonight. The candle on his nightstand threatens to burn out, its pathetic light flickering across the two other empty waterskins that lay side-by-side. He lay the third one down beside them before falling to his knees.

"Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure…"

And until the rays of morning warm his face, Cullen prays.

-oOo-

Cullen has never seen so much death.

The bodies of Templars, mages, abominations, and demons litter the floor, spilling warm crimson that pools at his feet. He can see nothing around him but thick, black smoke that drips to the floor like tar, lapping at the corpses that surround him. He tightens the grip on his blade, clinging to hopeless faith as the screams of his fallen brothers and sisters tear through his mind and the Chant spills from his lips, begging the Maker for strength, for forgiveness, for _help_.

"Cullen…"

And then all falls silent. The air that fills Cullen's lungs escapes him. Her voice is honey that fills him to the brim and he drifts, eyes closing as disbelief swells in his chest because she left so many months ago but he can _feel_ her. Her magic is like sheet music whose notes are carved into his memory, but _no this can't be real, it isn't real._

He finds the courage to open his eyes, to drink in the sight of her. Maker, did he miss her smile. She steps closer and the silk of her robes sighs against his armor. Cullen grows uncomfortable and tries to retreat but he's rooted in place and the tympanic rhythm in his chest beats to her magic. Her fingertips trail across his jawline and whisper across his neck as she leans into him, gently pressing her lips to his. At first he does nothing because this is wrong, so very wrong, and every fiber of his being wants to fight against this wickedness, this _atrocity_.

_No, she left for the Grey Wardens and she is never coming back._

But the doubtful thoughts are silenced once more by the temptation, the need, the _hunger_ that courses through him and soon his hands are tangled in her hair, pleading for more. She moves like water against stone and her scent drowns him, sinking him ever so slowly in a sea of want. The kiss deepens as his hands find the lacing of her robes, and her magic is no longer a soft adagio but an erratic allegro and the notes are wrong, her scent is wrong, everything is _wrong—_

Cullen screams himself awake. His pillow is drenched in sweat and his bones ache with fear but he rushes from his bed as if it will swallow him whole.

His door bursts open, shattering the lock and splintering the aged wood. People—all kinds of people—rush into his room, expressions laden with worry.

"Who are you!" he demands, throat raw and burning. Sweat seeps into the raw, itchy flesh of his arms and chest and stings him all over.

A woman who makes his blood hum steps forward, eyes wide and searching. "Cullen, you need to take deep breaths—"

"Maleficar!" He roars at the top of his lungs, "Abomination!"

Cullen hastily makes for his sword, but before he can reach it he is greeted by a hard blow to the head and darkness consumes him. When he stirs again, it is to the darkness of his room and he is restrained—ropes tied around his sore wrists and ankles. The back of his head throbs with agony. Across the room, the Inquisitor and Blackwall lean against a wall, exchanging concerned glances and low whispers with the moon beaming across their faces and stretching onto the floor.

Cullen delves into his memory as far as it will allow, but he can't discern what memories are real or not real and that churns his stomach.

The Inquisitor nods, which seemingly displeases Blackwall. He sighs, draping a fur-lined cloak around her shoulders before hesitantly exiting the room. Cullen watches as the Inquisitor slowly walks to the window and looks up, filling her lungs with cold midnight air. She brings her hands together and presses them to her lips in anguished prayer.

"O Maker, hear my cry: guide me through the blackest nights …" She recites the Chant as if the words are branded on her skin and continues until the whole of Transfigurations 12 has graced her lips.

Cullen tries desperately to remember something—anything—of his actions before. He rummages through his thoughts and tries to string together any memories he can make sense of because he knows this is his fault, but he must state his offenses and apologize to her properly because the silent tears streaming down her face and the buckling of her knees take more than a simple "I'm sorry" to repair.

But before he can say anything, before he can even utter her name or breathe a sigh, the Inquisitor falls to her knees and cradles her face in her hands. Sobs wrack her body. She is weeping.

What has he done?

-oOo-

He still can't remember their names.

Names are words committed to memory and his is unreliable and muddled, but their faces are faintly familiar and the unknown coils around him and squeezes until his bones snap—because where is he and who is he and why can't he remember? So he asks questions until his mouth runs dry and they answer.

He is told that his name is Cullen, a Templar—the woman warrior brings him a book on the subject, hoping to stir his memory— with a great military mind and impressive skill who had high expectations of himself and others. He was a fine leader, the qunari assures him, someone worthy of dying beside. He often hears words like "kind," "honorable," and "strong", and this eases him. The dwarf visits Cullen often and tells him he was—and still is—an admirable man: one who held firm in his beliefs and stood for what he felt was right. Cullen asks if that made him a_ good_ man because _that_ is what matters to him. The dwarf nods, a fond smile smoothing the concerned lines of his face. "One of the best I've ever had the pleasure of knowing, kid."

But they also tell him that he is ill, that they are desperately trying to help him in any way they can. The man who makes Cullen's blood and bones crackle asks if he is having nightmares. Cullen denies this, but does not tell him of the shadows that lurk in his room or the bugs that crawl beneath his skin because they do not exist and he is ashamed.

It's morning and the snow has all but nearly melted away, allowing the blades of grass underneath to breathe and stretch their arms to the sun in praise. A soft knock at his door tears through the silence and he doesn't need to hear her or see her to know who she is because he still knows the thrum of magic like he knows his prayers. His Templar training runs far too deep for his illness to corrupt.

"You may come in," he calls from his usual seat at the edge of the bed.

She treads carefully, as she always does, leaving the door half-open. Cullen frowns. She fears him, and he wonders what he must have done to frighten her, but those are questions for another time and another place. There are more pressing matters, he decides.

She bids him a good morning and takes a seat across from him, just out of arm's reach. "I hope I didn't wake you."

Cullen shakes his head. "No, I've been awake for quite some time."

"Are you having trouble sleeping?"

"No, but I've been thinking, trying to remember…" He fumbles for the right words because they slip through his fingers like sand but he needs to know— "I've been meaning to ask someone, and maybe you can help, but I'm not sure if it's real." Because he sees things and hears things that aren't there and they haunt him like anxious spirits.

"You can ask me anything," she promises, leaning forward in her seat.

Cullen licks his lips, fidgeting with the frayed fabric of his trousers. "I have these memories of curved corridors and spiraling staircases," he recalls slowly, drawing out each word, reluctant. He pauses before adding, "And books. A never-ending collection of books."

These words coax a smile from her, eager and encouraging. "Your memory is getting better. Yes, you were a Templar at the Circle Tower in Ferelden."

"But there's something else," he frowns. He should be happy these memories are real because that means he's healing, but why does he not smile? "I also remember a woman."

She clears her throat, an unreadable glint in her eyes as her smile slowly fades. "What about her?"

"I remember her vividly, more than anything else. She's in all those places with the books and hallways and stairs. These memories feel whole and complete, and that's never happened before. I think," he pauses, considering his words and wondering if they are the correct ones, "I think I loved her."

Seconds pass thick and slow like sap and Cullen's craving for answers grows restless. Finally she sighs, rubbing her face with her hands. When she looks at him again her eyes brim with tears and she smiles but there is nothing happy about it and Cullen knows this is his fault.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

Her laugh is humorless. "No, don't apologize. It's fine." She gets up to leave, smoothing her skirts and blinking away the tears that desperately try to escape. One manages to succeed, but she quickly wipes it away. "But I think it's best if I leave."

Cullen also stands, something in his chest pulling and aching. He sorts through memories like a blind man finding his way home but he draws nothing. "If I may ask, what have I done? If I've upset you, I don't wish to do it again."

Her hand rests on the door knob and she bites her trembling lip. "I'm sorry, I can't help you." And she leaves—rushes out before he can question what she means. The words don't make sense because she was thrilled that he remembered and now she's deeply upset. He can't help but think that he's hurt her over and over again but he can't remember how or when or why and he needs help; he needs guidance.

He does what comes naturally and drops to his knees, head bent and heart open and pleading. "My Creator, judge me whole: find me well within Your grace…"

Cullen questions if he is still a good man.


	2. Broken Chains

**Prompt:** How do you fight something you can't see? – Fenris/f!Hawke

* * *

Fenris is a free man.

The idea rings beautiful and awkward in his mind. He is able to go where he wishes and do as he pleases. His lips will never utter the word 'master' again for he has none. And while this has remained a dream for him until now—all this _privilege_, this _liberty_—he cannot seem to grow accustomed to it now that it is his new reality.

Varric offers to buy Fenris new clothes in hopes that he may look more inconspicuous, but he refuses, saying that his markings will show no matter the attire. Truthfully, he can't fathom wearing anything else but the fitted armor assigned to him. Small baskets of food are often left at his doorstep, courtesy of Aveline and her constant concern for his health, so he politely brings it inside to rot because he cannot stomach the rich cheese or the fatty meats. He only allows himself the bread after it has turned stale. He cannot even step through the door of the mansion without pause to let the spirits enter before him, for no one else accompanies him. Fenris hates himself for it.

When Hawke visits, she shows interest in_ him_, of all people. She is beautiful and deadly with her twin blades, and to think that she enjoys his company over the healer or even the _prince_… Fenris cannot help but feel both honor and shame. Slaves are not permitted these affections but she is lovely and kind and so willingly offers her heart to him as if the fragile thing will not crumble to dust in his gauntlets. So he tries—for three years he _tries _because she is worthy of no less—but he can feel the burning agony in his skin and the crack of a whip with each exchanged smile, each stolen glance, each unholy thought but he is not a slave, he is not a slave, _HE IS NOT A SLAVE!_

A wine bottle shatters against the wall in fury. Fenris's anger festers and swells until the room is pregnant with it and he knows Hawke can feel it. She is worried and upset and doesn't understand that his rage has nothing to do with her and that it's because of him—his inability to adapt. This isn't right and he isn't prepared… How does he explain that the chains are broken but his wrists and ankles are still heavy with the weight of them? How can he make her understand that he aches to be unrestrained but he simply does not know _how_? How does he tell her that he wants so desperately to openly love her, that he would gladly reach into his own chest and tear his heart out if she simply asked him (if that's what love means because that is one more thing he does not know and must figure out on his own), but that he is no fraction of what she deserves?

He wishes to string up his guilt and plunge his sword through its gut; feel the satisfaction as he twists the blade to have it cry out in agony before the life leaves it and it goes limp. His mind is weak, but his body is strong and disciplined and that makes him a fierce warrior. He is used to defeating his enemies.

But how do you fight something you cannot see?


	3. Clarity

**Prompt:** What do you want from me? - Zevran/f!Mahariel

* * *

Vella has never been in love before.

But Zevran is all sighs and skin and sweat under a pale moon. He spins tales with a sharp tongue of silver that weaves poetry into her skin—from her hills and valleys to the depths of her sea. What was lust is now something _more_ and soon she's a bird that's flying too close to the sun, but the warmth is so nice and if she could just fly a little closer…

She is too quickly plucked out of the sky. The earring is, as Zevran clarifies, nothing more than a token of his thanks. But the gloves and the boots… has she done something wrong? With a heavy heart she accepts it, because maybe this once he just can't find the right words; but her bed is empty and his eyes dart away when she approaches. Whatever hope she clings to withers away with the passing weeks.

So when he enters her tent one night, unannounced and uninvited, her blood boils. His hands trail gooseflesh down her arms and—no! He can't _do this_ to her! The questions burn like acid in her throat because who does he think he is and why is he here and who gave him the right to play with her emotions?

Zevran remains silent, and it's only moments before Vella has him pinned to the ground with a thin, curved blade at his throat. She battles the tears that threaten to break free as his finger gently brushes against the gold earring that adorns the space between the pointed helix and lobe of her right ear.

A low rumble escapes his throat and he smirks, "Ah, you have been practicing what I taught you, I see."

Vella tightens the grip on her blade and her nails dig deeper into the flesh of his arm. Zevran doesn't even flinch.

"_Mi amor_, let me explain," he whispers. His voice is silk and nectar, and the way the words roll off his tongue draws her in like a moth to a flame.

With trembling hands and a weary heart, Vella drops her dagger to the floor. _No_, he can't _call her that_ because that's not what she is, he even said so himself. The truest definition of the word is a mystery to her, but when it falls from his lips it snakes between her ribs and coils around her lungs until she is suffocating.

Tears stream down her cheeks as Zevran sits up and cups her face, but she doesn't pull away because she misses everything from his scent to the melodic beating in his chest. She manages to choke out, "What do you want from me?"

The explanation pours from him, slow and sweet, and he draws her so close that she can feel the rise and fall of his chest against her own. His lips find hers and the kiss they share is deep and tender and now his armor is on the floor and the braids in her hair are undone. His hands roam her body as if her skin is gold and gems and together they sway, each thrust of his hips bringing her closer to home. She arches and tightens and _yes_ _kiss me right here_ and_bite me there_ and _please go_ _deeper_. For hours they slowly pour unsaid emotion into each other, over and over and over again until they burn with the heat of it, trembling and gasping for air.

Sunlight slowly creeps into the tent, yawning across their bodies as Zevran pulls her close and whispers apologies and praise into her hair that lull her to the brink of sleep.

"Do not fight it," he laughs, watching her eyes close and flutter open. "After that performance, you'll be needing plenty of rest."

Vella smiles, but her leg drapes over his hip and she clutches his hand to her chest and Zevran just _knows._

"Don't worry, my dear warden. I will be here when you awake," he coos, running his free hand through her hair. "I am yours."


	4. Mistakes

_Pairing: Alistair/f!Cousland_

* * *

Whatever the hell Oghren has in that flask, it is _strong._

The thick spicy liquid trickles down Alistair's throat like scorching sap and it feels really, really good. The heat mimics the warmth from the fire, spreading from his belly all the way down to his toes. He takes a long swig, hoping it drowns out the image that has been branded into his memory since early this morning.

"Woah, slow down there, kid. Don't want you passin' out on me like last time," Oghren grunts, snatching the rough leather flask from Alistair's hands. "I'm not haulin' your sorry ass to bed."

"I'm _fine_," he argues, reaching for the alcohol again, a sea of ale raging within his stomach.

_Please don't get sick, please don't get sick, please don't get sick…._

"My ass you are, lightweight. Just hasn't kicked in yet." Oghren snickers as he downs a hearty swig to himself. "Judgin' by how green your face is, I'd say it's comin' pretty damn soon."

Alistair watches as the flap of Emilia's tent opens and she steps out, shooting him a wide smile. Each step she takes brings her closer to him and the idea of even being _near_ her right now is thrilling and nauseating and _wow_ is the world turning fast.

"Evening Alistair, Oghren," she laughs (probably at him). She receives a short "warden" from the dwarf and a groan from the drunken idiot himself. "Alistair, are you—"

Blackout.

* * *

The next thing Alistair sees is the inside of his tent, and the moon beaming in through a small hole at the top that he keeps forgetting to fix. His head is pounding and his stomach is still churning the contents.

"Ah, look who's awake," Emilia says, handing him a bucket. "You'll probably need this."

Alistair snatches the thing out of her hands, ready to empty his stomach until he nearly rids his body of that too, but a few breaths and the nausea calms. He looks up, his eyes meeting the soft green of Emilia's, and the thought he was trying so hard to bury was resurfacing with a vengeance. He has to be quick with the placement of his bucket.

"Are you alright? You're acting a bit odd. Well, odder than your usual drunken state, at least."

"I'm… yeah. I think? I don't know." Woah. If Alistair survives any of this whole Blight nonsense, he should seriously consider being a poet.

"Honestly, you haven't spoken to me all day. Did I do something?" Emilia takes her seat next to Alistair on the bed roll, hand dangerously close to his arm. He can practically smell the elfroot she was picking this morning right before she—

"—had a bath," his mouth forms the words of its own accord because he certainly _did not_ want to say that out loud. If there were ever a time Alistair wanted the Void to take him, it's now.

The female warden scrunches up her nose, eyebrows furrowed. "A bath?"

Oh, no. What he meant to say was that he's not talking because he's too scared that he'll just keep rambling on, just like good old Alistair does, about things like cheese and swords and statuettes, but then he'll just blurt out that he watched—no _saw, _he did not watch he _saw _it because it was an _accident. _But no, she will never know because Alistair wants to keep his genitals—and, more importantly, his head.

"Alistair?" she asks again, sounding more worried. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I…"

_…think your hair looks lovely in the moonlight. You've got the most beautiful black hair I've ever seen, and I just wanted to say that I—_

"—saw you having a bath."

Honestly, out of all the other things he could have said? Was there bloody truth serum in that flask?

"What?" she yelps, her hand flying to her mouth.

There's no running away from it now, idiot. "I didn't mean to. I was trying to find you. Wynne needed you for something, and I just… it was an accident, I _swear_." Alistair is all hands and knotted tongue, and in his honest attempt to try and salvage what dignity he has, he knocks the bucket away to reveal his… umm…

"Oh," she breathes, scrambling to get up. A furious pink rises from her neck onto her cheeks and her eyes begin to water. "I—um… I need to go now."

"Emilia, wait—" He fumbles with his sheets to try and cover himself, but everything is still sort of wobbly, and whatever coordination he had in his hands is completely depleted.

"No, no, I will be going now. Hope you feel better soon with all of your… stuff." And in the span of Alistair's depressed sigh, she runs out.

He's _so_ going to hell.


End file.
